


Joke's On You

by allmystars



Series: Find Me, Lose Me [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Best Friends, Castiel (Supernatural) is Missing, Castiel Ran Away, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Misses Castiel, Letter to Castiel, Letters, M/M, Missing Persons, Or Was Kidnapped, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prankster Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars
Summary: Dear Cas,I can remember six separate jokes we played on your parents' over the years that compete for the top spot on my list of All-Time Best Pranks.This is how I remember us.You, of course, saw it differently.





	Joke's On You

_Dear Cas,_

_I can remember six separate jokes we played on your parents' over the years that compete for the top spot on my list of All-Time Best Pranks. They range from little practical jokes—bright pink hair dye in your father’s shampoo the day before some ridiculous presentation to counteract the efforts of our biosphere reserve—to more substantial plots that, to some, might be considered borderline illegal._

_I remember one in particular where we dug up an old, skeletal tree; its bark, long since gone a deep shade of ashy grey, peeling in thick curls like the oranges we used to peel, trying to see who could pull off the most rind without it breaking off. You were always the best at that._

_We dug up that tree and dragged it across town, not caring about how the onlookers viewed us, though I always thought their eyes shone with envy and wonder at our daring, teenage recklessness. The whispered words behind their hands, connected to their furrowed brows, were ones of praise, not of admonishment._

_Then, in our favorite park, we dug a hole big enough for the roots to settle deep in the dirt to stand tall on its own. Decorated with all the Christmas things we could find, we left it there for our admirers to gaze upon._

_This is how I remember us, with prank after prank and laugh after laugh. Even now, sitting at your parents' dining room table without you, the scratched and scarred wood beneath my fingers catching on my nails as I pick at it absentmindedly, I remember those times the most._

_Every white picket fence painted blue, green, yellow, pink. The owners, not happy, but in awe of our wild spirits even through their righteous anger. After, they always asked us_ why? Why’d we do it? How’d we even think to do it? _I always went right into the detailed examination of our thought process, describing the algorithm we used in combination with our overactive imaginations. Somehow, they always looked less than satisfied and you always looked embarrassed—annoyed, even—at having all our secrets shared with the world. You always hated when I revealed our process, but sometimes I just couldn’t help myself._

_Your parents’ won’t look me in the eye now. I can’t even imagine what they’re thinking. I don’t know how I’m thinking; my thoughts swirl around in an endless loop as I try to decipher the sharp glances and hidden stares. They don’t smile—their lips kept in a straight, tight line. I think their faces might splinter and crack if they shifted even the tiniest muscle.I think I know what they’re going to say but they don’t give even the slightest hint. Hope blooms in my chest all the same._

_It reminds me of that time we were called into the principal's office. We sat there, our faces made of stone, as we were questioned. Accusation after accusation, everything from TP’d locker rooms to oil-slicked hallways—a make-shift slip and slide. We, of course, were guilty of all of it, but there wasn’t even the slightest bit of evidence on our faces to give us away. It’s those times, when we were so in sync in every twisted tail and elaborate backstory, that I felt truly connected to another person. Truly happy in the friendship we had._

_You, of course, saw it differently. The macabre Christmas tree, you saw as a ridiculous attempt at rebellion. The oil slip and slide? Ruined your favorite shirt. When I told our secrets, you were embarrassed to be associated with such childlike things._

_I don’t know how I didn’t see it then. Perhaps I was too caught up in the idea of a partner in crime—my best friend from day one by my side forever—that I couldn’t see how much you’d changed. I didn’t notice your new friends; the other guys that loved gardening and pretty paintings with fancy meanings that I could never understand. I chose not to see them. When you ignored me in the halls, it was because you just didn’t see me. I knew that. I thought I knew that. I don’t know that._

_Right now, I sit at your dining room table with your parents’ and my brother. There’s a police officer here, too, but I don’t pay too much attention to her, focussing instead on the two sets of stony eyes staring back at me._

_In later days I’ll think back to this moment; wonder where it all went wrong and lament the hope I felt springing up inside me, but this is now and my nail catches on a splinter of wood. A drop of blood—bright red—drips on the table._

_Stony faces shatter, cracking between eyes and across lips. Water spills out from between them. There’s a letter pushed in front of me, crisp and white and clean. Not even a wrinkle. Its only mark comes from the splinter in my finger. Blood red against white. It has your swirly, messy hand. It says,_ Don’t look for me. I don’t want to be found.

 _This is a joke. It is—I know it. Of course you want to be found. You_ have _to want to be found._

_Right?_

Right?

 _I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything_ at all.


End file.
